Memento Mori
by TheSoundOfAurora
Summary: A short history of the life and times of Esme Cullen, or the woman she once was, and the things that changed her. A key to knowledge, a life unfolding, and three times when fate intervened. And through it all, the doctor who smiled and understood. [Esme/Carlisle, AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note**: This short story is part of a reimagined Twilight universe, and covers most of Esme's life before she became a vampire. It's part two of an unofficial series focussed on meetings.

Please note, as with most of the Cullens in this universe, Esme no longer uses the same name she was born with so the name used throughout this story is the one she had at that time in her life. The same goes for Carlisle. I'm not doing this specifically to confuse anyone, I swear.

**Content warnings**: Canonically, Esme's backstory involves quite a lot of traumatic and potentially triggering topics including abusive relationships, violence towards children and suicide. I chose to go in a different direction with her character and her history, so those topics are not involved in this story. I'm not here to shock anyone, and I don't feel that those things added anything of value to her character. That said, some later parts of the story fall in the middle of a war, so it's not all rainbows and roses. Use your discretion.

Also, I'd like to think this goes without saying but in the world of fanfiction anything goes, so I feel the need to be specific: Due to the fact that Esme (or Sue) is still very young in the first chapters, let make it crystal clear, Word of God, that there is _NO_ romantic or sexual context to the interactions between Sue and Mr Grant at this time in their lives. I'm not here to shame anyone, and fanfiction can be a great safe space to explore topics that would otherwise be very unsafe in the real world - however, I have no interest in writing or reading about the sexualising or romanticising of adult/child relationships. If that _is_ something you happen to be interested in, please be aware that you won't find it here and I'd appreciate if you didn't raise the topic in the comments. Thank you.

**Disclaimer**: Twilight and associated characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. This story belongs to me.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Benson, Arizona_

_Summer 1891_

'Susan! Susan, get down from there this minute!'

Sighing, Susan leant out of her nest in the bowl of the sycamore. 'Why?'

'Mother says we all have to dress in our best, and your hair takes so long,' Abigail said, hands on her hips. 'It's probably full of ants, anyway.'

'It is not!' Susan shuddered.

'Well if you will sit in trees all day, it'd serve you right! Come down, for heaven's sake. The doctor will be here very soon.'

'Why do we have to meet him? I don't see the point,' Susan complained, but she was already tucking her book into the pocket of her apron. She got a foot onto the branch below and swung down.

'Oh goodness, I can't look,' Abigail moaned, covering her eyes. 'He's coming to see Belinda, Sue, so the least we can do is say thank you!'

Susan's lip jutted with annoyance, but she couldn't argue. They were all relieved that somebody would be seeing to Belinda. She'd been coughing for months, and Mr Jeffreys in town just kept advising bed rest. Mother was getting quite frantic.

Dropping to the ground with a thump, Susan and Abigail shared a mutually accusing look and then went inside, still bickering.

'I don't _want_ my hair up, it always takes so long to brush out!'

'Oh, stop making such a fuss! If you cared enough to brush it yourself in the mornings you wouldn't have so much trouble!'

'I _would_ but it's too long! I can't reach all the way to the ends.'

'Then you'll just have to manage, won't you? Come on. _No, don't wipe your feet there-_ Oh, for goodness' sake!'

An hour later they were all sitting in an uneasy hush in the parlour, hair free of ants and brushed for longer than Susan would have liked, dressed in their best muslins.

'How much longer do we have to wait?' Susan whispered, eyeing the cookies that had been arranged on the table.

'Shhh.' Marianne, her eldest sister, gave her a dark look from where she was busy watching the kettle through the kitchen door. 'Don't fidget.'

Susan glanced around impatiently. Abigail was working on her cross-stitch, and Jennifer was looking over her shoulder like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Susan wanted to groan with boredom, but she knew Marianne would be a nuisance about it so she kept quiet, trying not to tap her feet.

There was a sudden scurry of footsteps in the corridor, and they all jumped as Mother came flying in. 'Get the tea made, hurry!' she gasped. 'He's only a moment away!'

Marianne bolted for the kettle while Abigail rushed to tidy away her sewing. Jennifer looked ready to burst into tears from nerves.

After a few more moments everything settled down again. Then Mother came back in, ushering the tall young man with golden hair like he was a prince.

'Here, Mr Grant, please have a seat,' Mother offered breathlessly. 'We really can't thank you enough, Mr Grant, you've been such a mercy on our house, you really have.'

'I'm only glad I could help, Mrs Darrow,' the doctor said softly. He had a quiet, low sort of voice; he sounded nice, Susan thought, and maybe a little shy.

'Marianne! Mr Grant, this is our eldest, Marianne, and this is Abigail. The girls are Jennifer and Susan.'

'It is a great pleasure to meet all of you ladies. I hope the summer is treating you well.'

'Oh, it's a trouble in the heat,' Marianne said eagerly, tossing her hair in a fashion that Susan felt was extremely silly. 'Thank goodness for the shade today! If only it would rain a little, the roses are going to die if it carries on like this.'

'Marianne, please, give Mr Grant a cookie,' Mother said reprovingly, widening her eyes.

Chastened, Marianne picked up the plate.

'Oh, that's very kind,' Mr Grant murmured, seeming embarrassed. 'I'm... I'm afraid I don't eat between meals, Mrs Darrow. I hope I didn't put you to any trouble.'

'Goodness, not at all!' Mother said quickly, glaring at Marianne like it was her fault. 'Won't you take some tea?'

'Ah, thank you...'

'What's wrong with Belinda?'

'_Susan!_'

Mother and Abigail both looked shocked, but Susan just frowned at the doctor, waiting for an answer.

Mr Grant met her stern gaze and smiled, but not in the tiresome, patronising way she expected from most grown up men who talked to her. He seemed pleased by her question.

'Have you ever heard of asthma?'

'No.'

'It's an inflammatory disease that effects the respiratory system and makes it hard to breathe,' Mr Grant said, leaning forward a little to explain. He seemed not to notice the teacup Mother was offering him. 'The bad news is that we haven't found a reliable cure as yet, but the good news is that it is treatable. I've given your mother some liniment, and I hope your sister will feel better very soon.'

'Why does it make it hard to breathe? Is that why she coughs all the time?'

'Oh Susan, _please_, don't bother the man with such ridiculous questions,' Mother broke in. 'Here, Mr Grant, have some tea.'

'Thank you- But it's really no bother, Mrs Darrow. I'm always happy to explain these things. The more young people understand the world around them, the better chance they have of improving on it. Don't you agree?'

'Oh, well, I suppose that's right.'

Mother seemed a little flustered, but Susan felt a flush of excitement at his words. He didn't mind her questions. He _wanted_ her to understand.

'Is it the asthma that makes her wheeze when she tries to run?'

Mr Grant's eyes returned to Susan instantly, lighting up at her interest. 'Yes, that's a very common symptom of asthma. Does she tire quickly?'

'Always. She doesn't like playing with me and Jenny because she gets out of breath.'

He nodded. 'Well, Miss Darrow, I would suggest you find gentle ways to play together that don't push her too hard. I know it can be difficult when you want to play outside, but she may find it quite frustrating being the only one who can't jump rope or play catch. Do you read?'

'Oh, goodness,' Mother was muttering, visibly embarrassed.

'Yes,' Susan said brazenly, ignoring her. 'I read very well.'

Mr Grant's eyes crinkled with a warm smile. 'That's very good. Perhaps you and Belinda can read together sometimes, in that case.'

'Susan, don't be such a show-off,' Abigail broke in, rolling her eyes. 'You're not _so_ very good at it.'

'I'm better than _you!_'

'_Girls!_' Mother looked about to faint from shame. '_Please!_ Have a _little _decorum.'

Mr Grant was clearly trying not to laugh. He cleared his throat.

'Well, Miss Darrow, I imagine Belinda would appreciate your company sometimes when she has to rest. It can be very lonely being the odd one out.'

_I know_, thought Susan.

Mother recovered the conversation then, and Susan sat quietly at last, only sharing a scowl with Abigail when the grown ups' backs were turned.

When he finally excused himself they all went to wave him off from the front door, and then scurried back to the parlour window to watch him retreating down the road.

'He didn't drink his tea,' Jennifer observed, puzzled.

'He's _very_ handsome,' Abigail said, a little wistfully.

'Yes he is, and he must think you were all raised by wolves after that show you put on,' Mother burst out, fanning herself in her distress. 'Good lord in heaven, he surely saw how pretty you are, Marianne, but you won't ever catch yourself a husband like that with sisters like yours!'

'It's not my fault!' Abigail objected. 'Sue was the one being awful! Did you hear her?'

'Half the county must have heard her!' Mother snapped. 'Oh, where is that girl?'

'She's probably up a tree again.'

'If she ruins another petticoat, I... Oh, all that muslin! Susan! _Susan!_'

The back gate was still swinging, but Susan was too far away to hear her mother's call.

* * *

There was a shortcut down the bank from the back yard and onto the road that led into Benson. Susan ran down the track between the trees, her hateful petticoats pulled up to her knees, so fast she felt like she was flying.

She came out onto the road just behind the young doctor and for a moment she clung to the fence, hurriedly brushing down her skirts and trying to catch her breath. After a few more steps he paused and turned to look at her, a smile crinkling around his eyes.

'Good day, Miss Darrow. Did I forget something?'

'No, Mr Grant. Good day. Are you going back to Benson?'

'Yes, I am.'

'I have to go and meet Father.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'My word. It's quite a long walk on your own. Do you need an escort?'

'Yes please.'

He smiled again and offered her his arm. 'In that case, it would be an honour, madam.'

She took his arm eagerly, a little shy but excited to have a chance to talk to him properly. He was very tall beside her, but he seemed unperturbed at having to slow his pace to match hers. To her surprise, his arm was quite cool through his heavy coat, and she noticed that he was wearing gloves.

'How long have you been a doctor?' she asked as they began to tread the shady road between the acacias.

'Many years.'

His hat brim was broad and cast long shadows over his face, but his smile still seemed to bring light with it.

'Do you like it?' she asked.

'Very much. It makes me happy, having a purpose. Bringing ease to people who are suffering.'

Susan thought for a few moments.

'I should like to be a doctor.'

He glanced down at her face. There was still a smile lingering around his lips, but he wasn't laughing at her.

'That's a very fine idea. The world is always in need of those who are willing and able to care for others.'

'How did you get to be a doctor?'

'I read a great many books,' he said wryly. 'And I spoke to very wise people who were willing to tell me what they knew. I studied very hard, in the practical and the theoretical. It is a long journey. But more than worth it, I assure you.'

Susan frowned. 'I don't have a lot of books, and most people won't tell me anything,' she said, a little disheartened.

He seemed to consider the problem. 'Well, if you like, you can ask me any questions you want. And maybe I can find a book or two that would help you,' he said softly.

She looked at him admiringly. 'That's very nice of you.'

He chuckled. 'I meant what I said to your mother. There is nothing more important than the passing on of knowledge, and when bright young people put their minds to it, no challenge is too great. I can see you're a clever young woman. I should like to do my part.'

'Are you going to stay in Benson forever?' Susan asked, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.

He shook his head gently. 'No, I won't be here for very long. A few weeks, perhaps.'

Heart sinking, she sighed. 'I'll try to think of all my questions tonight, then. Can I come and visit you tomorrow?'

He laughed. 'You can take your time, I'm afraid I will be out most of tomorrow. But if you want to write your questions down, I'm sure you can leave it with the landlady at my boarding house, and I will write back to you as soon as I can.'

'Alright, I will. Thank you.'

Despite that, she asked him a lot more questions on the twenty minute walk in to town. He answered all of them as best he could, thoughtful and calm as they spoke together. Never once did he tell her that her question was foolish or that she hadn't the right to know, and by the time he left her in front of her father's store she was glowing with newfound knowledge and excitement.

'Thank you very much for walking me here, Mr Grant,' she said, ducking her head politely as she knew she should.

He bowed in return. 'It was my very great pleasure, Miss Darrow. I look forward to your letter.'

She watched him walk away, biting her lip to hide the happiest smile of her young life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Benson, Arizona_

_Summer 1891_

_Dear Mr Grant,_

_I hope you are well. I am very grateful that you are allowing me to write you. I have thought of more questions, as enclosed._

The list went on for three pages. Susan had written quite small on both sides, all the way up to the margins, because Mother had gotten cross with her for asking for more paper.

She folded up the letter quite small so it would fit into the envelope and addressed the outside.

Then another thought crossed her mind, and she had to steal into Father's office to find another piece of paper after all.

_Why do people get sick from eating raw meat but not from eating raw vegetables? Is there something in the vegetables that makes them better, or is there something in the meat that makes them worse?_

The envelope was bulging by morning, and Father's desk was missing quite a stack from the letter rack.

Susan got up very early so that Mother wouldn't try to stop her going out, and she ran all the way into town. When she got to the boarding house it was still quiet, and there were only a few people walking up and down the street on their way to work. She decided not to knock on the door in case she woke somebody, so she sat on the steps and watched the chickens pecking and grooming themselves in the middle of the road, showering themselves in dust. She wished she'd brought a pen.

_Why do chickens cover themselves in dirt? They seem to like it. Are they just naturally dirty, like pigs, or does it do something useful for them? They're not so very dirty and smelly the rest of the time, so it seems like there must be a reason._

When the door opened beside her, she had almost drifted into a funny dream, full of birds and soft morning clouds. She jumped, and Mr Grant looked down at her in surprise.

'Why, good morning, Miss Darrow. Are you alright? You're up very early.'

Flushing like the dawn, Susan leapt to her feet and held out her heavy envelope to him nervously. 'Yes, I'm quite alright, thank you, good morning, I hope you're very well today, I brought you my letter.'

He took it carefully in his gloved hand. 'That's excellent, Miss Darrow. I will have something to read on my way to Tombstone. I shall think it all over and write you back this evening.'

'It's alright if you don't,' Susan said, still very pink in the face. 'It's quite long.'

He hefted the letter with interest and smiled wryly. 'Well, all the better that I get started, in that case.'

'Have a nice day!' Susan said, and hurried towards home, too nervous to look back.

She walked back along the road quite slowly after she had left the edge of town. Getting back to the house didn't seem all that appealing with the thought of Mother's disapproval to look forward to. She filled her thoughts with the conversation of the previous afternoon, trying to recall everything that the doctor had told her. It had been very interesting; even if he didn't answer her letter at all, she was already very pleased to have talked to him. She'd gone to sit with Belinda after supper and had read to her from her dog-eared copy of _Treasure Island_, and they had talked about the view of the mountains from Belinda's bedroom window and whether there might be caves full of gold and jewels up there.

Susan was still considering this possibility as she walked up the track to the kitchen door, when suddenly there was a shower of dead leaves and Abigail and Jennifer came out from behind a bush, giggling.

'Oh, bother,' Susan grumbled, picking twigs from her hair. 'I was still clean this morning. Now Mother will be cross, you beasts!'

'It serves you right for going out when you shouldn't,' Abigail said, sticking her tongue out. 'Where were you, anyway?' Her eyes gleamed. 'Jerry brought the milk round earlier and he said he saw you going into town.'

'I was just going for a walk!'

'Oh really. Why should you go for a walk at this hour?' Abigail tittered triumphantly. 'Unless you were visiting somebody?'

'I'm going in for breakfast.'

'You're too late! Mother says you don't get any for sneaking out like that.'

'Oh, go fall in a ditch, Abby!'

'Who were you visiting, Susie? Was it a _boy?_'

'Ugh! Why would I want to visit a boy? That's horrid. _You're_ horrid. Go away!'

'It's a boy, it's a boooy!'

Susan fled the laughter, muttering furiously under her breath. Abigail didn't understand _anything_. She was far too silly, she didn't care about how things worked or why they were the way they were. She laughed at Susan all the time for asking perfectly reasonable questions. It was thoroughly aggravating.

When she got inside, though, things were even worse. Mother wanted to know all about where she'd been, and Father was grumbling about where all his good letter paper had gone overnight, and after not very long they put their heads together and Susan was done for. Then Abigail got back inside and had to tell them all about what _Jerry_ had seen, and suddenly it was all out in the open.

'You did _what?_' Mother nearly collapsed.

'That was half a dollar's worth of paper, girl!'

'You _wrote_ to _Mr Grant?_' Abigail looked ready to burst with delighted scorn.

'He said I could!' Susan wailed.

'And what? He would write back? To _you?_'

'Yes! He promised!'

'Oh, like he would. You're just a nosy little brat, why would he want to talk to _you?_'

After another minute, Susan burst into tears and fled back outside. Sitting alone in the bushes while her mother screeched for her from the house, she scrubbed the tears from her cheeks and told herself that this wasn't fair. Alright, Father was right and she shouldn't have used all that paper without asking, but everyone else was just being unreasonable. There was no good reason she couldn't write to Mr Grant if Mr Grant said she could.

But by the evening she was feeling far less sure of herself, and Abigail's rolling eyes had convinced her: He wouldn't write back. After all, nice as he was, he was obviously very busy. He'd been going all the way to Tombstone and back in a day, he'd said, so he had to have very important business there. It was ridiculous to think he'd waste his time on her idle fancies.

All the same, she was hardly the most surprised the next morning when Jerry came with the milk and brought a clean white envelope with him, tucked carefully in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out while he was talking to Abigail and asked if Susan was home, and Susan nearly jumped out of her chair.

'That _can't_ be for her,' Abigail objected, snatching it out of his hand and looking at it closely.

Jerry shrugged. 'I don't know much about writing, but that fella at the lodging house asked me to bring it up here for Miss Susan.'

'Abby, give it here!' Susan pleaded, reaching for it.

Abigail held her at arm's length, waving the letter out of reach. 'Oh, don't be ridiculous! Mother, she shouldn't have it, should she? Not when she snuck out like that!'

Mother snatched it away. 'It's completely improper for a strange man to be writing to you like this, Susan,' she snapped. 'No matter how charming he is! Your father must see this immediately.'

Susan went back to her chair and refused to say anything else, no matter how Abigail goaded her. She concentrated on her breakfast, eating one miniscule bite of porridge at a time just to draw it out while she kept on ignoring her sisters' mockery.

When Father came into the kitchen, though, they all scrambled to attention.

'Here, dear, here it is. Open it,' Mother said, thrusting the doctor's letter at her husband.

Mr Darrow sighed and sat down, slitting the envelope with a knife. He shook the heavy bundle of paper into his hand, unfolded it and began to read.

After a minute he turned over the first sheet and read the other side. Then he flicked through several more pages. The last handful he turned over several times to be sure.

'It looks like it's for Susan, alright,' he said finally. 'All sorts of rubbish about birds and beasts and the weather and diseases of the lung. And half a pound of blank paper, by the feel of it.'

'What? What on earth for?' Mother demanded.

Father gave Susan a stern look. 'I should say to replace all of mine that she stole-' he began, and then he shook his head. '-But never mind that. For whatever she wants. It's a gift from the doctor.'

Abigail was looking quite red in the face, and Marianne seemed almost as shocked as Mother. Jennifer and Belinda didn't seem to know what was going on. As for Susan, she was trying not to let the smile show or she knew she might burst from excitement.

With a sigh, Father handed the bundle of paper to her. 'Here you go. I can't see any harm in it. If the man wants to answer all her interminable questions, let him. So long as she doesn't touch any more of my paper, I've got nothing against it.'

'Well, I... I never,' Mother said.

And that was that.

* * *

Mr Grant stayed in Benson for seventeen more days, all told. Susan kept count because every day after that Jerry would bring an envelope with him in the mornings. Her sisters soon tired of teasing her and went back to their usual pursuits, but for Susan, the world turned three-hundred-and-sixty degrees in half a month. Jerry's deliveries weren't just paper and ink, they were the treasure of a thousand kingdoms: The secrets of the universe.

Mr Grant had the very finest handwriting in the world, of that she was sure. He would draw diagrams and pictures for her, too, delicate and meticulous and utterly beautiful - the muscles of a bird's wing, maps of the stars, the growth of trees, the patterns of glacial erosion. Her questions grew even more outlandish, even more varied, as the days passed, because for every one he had an answer. Even when he didn't know, still it satisfied her, because he seemed to find joy in her curiosity itself and to delight in the unknown and the unknowable.

_I'm afraid I don't know how swallows find their way home. Maybe they have their own kind of compass, or they keep a map inside their heads, or perhaps they merely know something we don't. What do you think?_

She saved the letters in a box where nobody else would find them. They were the most precious things she could imagine, a fountain of understanding in a muddy world of incomprehension.

Then, to everyone's amazement, something even more remarkable appeared.

The day that he left, Mr Grant's last letter came. Jerry handed it to Susan with a serious look on his face. Mr Grant had told him to take extra special care of it today, he said - that it was very important.

Susan refused to open it while the others were all pestering her about it. She saved it for the afternoon, when the sun was pounding down so nobody wanted to go outside. She went out anyway and climbed into the sycamore tree, and there in the shade she opened the last envelope.

Inside was the letter, and with it a plain little key.

_Dear Susan Darrow,_

_I am very sorry that this must be my last letter to you, as I've so enjoyed our correspondence. I wanted to give you something that I hope can be of use to you - please take good care of the key, as the rest will arrive later. In the mean time I have answered your questions from your last letter, but before I get to that, I want to offer a few more personal words._

_You are an exceptionally clever young woman. Do whatever you can in your life to keep on learning, and to follow the things you are passionate about. You are capable of great things, Susan, and I hope to hear of some of them in the papers one day, or even the scientific journals._

_If you ever do decide to pursue medicine, as you have spoken of to me, I have listed the names of some of my friends in California who may be of service to you. They are all good, honest people whom I trust. Of all of them, I most highly recommend Mrs Mills - though she is not in medicine herself, she runs a school for young ladies and I would be more than glad to vouch for you if you ever wished to apply there. You need only mention my name._

_It has been a great honour to meet you, Susan. I hope you have a very good life, full of new and wonderful discoveries and all the joy in the world._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Alastair Grant_

She didn't read the rest right away. The other six pages were full of fascinating things, and they meant everything to her, but for a little while at least she needed to sit and think about the first page.

She didn't cry, but for a few weeks after that nobody heard her laugh very much. Marianne asked her if she was missing Mr Grant terribly, and Susan didn't deny it, but it wasn't just that. She was very busy, because she had more things to write. Since she couldn't ask her questions of Alastair Grant, she would have to think about the answers for herself, and to do that she had discovered that a pen and paper were excellent tools.

The key she kept on a piece of string around her neck. Her sisters wanted to know what it was, and so did she, but she wouldn't let anyone else touch it. Mr Grant had told her to keep it safe for a reason. Whatever that reason was, she had confidence that she would find out.

They all did, when a month later Father came home early with two of the shop-boys carrying a very large steamer trunk along with them.

'Susan!'

She dashed downstairs from Belinda's room.

'What's _that?_' It wasn't just Abigail who wanted to know.

'It's got Susie's name on it,' Jennifer marvelled.

Susan traced the lettering; it had been carved deeply into the metal band around the trunk, impossible to remove, and it was in a hand she recognised.

_Property of Susan Darrow_

_Benson, Arizona_

'It's locked,' Father said.

Everyone looked at Susan, and at the little grey key hanging around her neck.

She took it off and carefully opened the trunk. Her family, and the shop boys, all craned to look over her shoulder. Only Susan laughed, and she with a breathless delight.

Light fingered with awe, she brushed the covers of the books within.

'No wonder it felt like we were lifting a ton of bricks!' one of the lads grumbled.

'What's that say?' Jennifer asked.

Susan read the name aloud: '_Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy_.'

'Well, I'll be,' Father said, scratching his head.

Abigail tittered. 'That Mr Grant is the strangest man I've ever met!' she remarked.

Susan closed the lid of the trunk with a snap.

After more discussion and debate, Mother and Father agreed that there was no real harm in letting her keep the books. It was certainly odd, there was no denying that, but if the doctor wanted her to have them, there wasn't much reason to disagree. After all, Father pointed out, there might be some money in selling them one day. Perhaps it would help to pay for Susan's wedding.

'Wedding!' Mother almost wailed. 'As if anyone will marry a girl who won't ever get her head out of a book!'

But all the same, the shop boys helped to carry the trunk up to Susan's room.

When she was finally alone she sat on the edge of her bed and opened the first page of Newton's _Principles_.

'He isn't _strange_,' she said fiercely to herself, stroking the thin old paper with trembling fingers. 'He's the kindest man in the world.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Oakland, California_

_Winter 1904_

'Goodnight, darling. You'll be good for your grandmama, won't you?'

The little boy fretted as his mother kissed his cheeks, putting his arms out pleadingly for her embrace. She sighed and pulled him close for another warm hug.

'Sweet dreams, George dear.'

As she closed the bedroom door, her mother-in-law approached down the stairs and treated her to a stern frown.

'These late evenings of yours are quite a strain on us, you know, Susan.'

'I know, M'ma,' Susan replied, picking up her handbag from the hall table. 'David made me promise to go as often as I could, though. I don't want to waste all the money and time he's put in to the tuition.'

Mrs Heartley looked sour. 'Yes indeed, that would be a terrible shame,' she said darkly.

'Thank you for taking care of George, M'ma,' Susan sighed. 'I promise I won't be terribly late tonight.'

Susan Heartley slipped quietly out of the house, doing up her woollen coat as she hurried for the bus. It weighed on her conscience, leaving George like that, but the choice was impossible. There was a supplementary lecture on about a new piece of technology that promised to improve medical understanding of the heart. It was the first presentation on the topic in America, and it happened to be at Mills College, the only place she would ever get to hear about it. She couldn't miss the opportunity.

The bus was still very busy with people going home from work. Tucking her hands into her pockets against the insidious winter breeze, Susan gazed out of the window at the bay passing by. Even after five years in California, it still took her breath away sometimes when she looked out at the sea.

Out there somewhere was her husband. His ship would be on its way back from Anchorage before very long, and he would be home for Christmas. The thought made her smile. George would be so delighted to have his father home again, if only for a little while.

The lights of the college were dim with evening when she stepped off the bus, most of the lecture halls already closed up and at rest. A few other women were on their way in, despite the hush, and she joined them on the way down the empty corridors to the one lit hall at the end.

The room was still echoing with conversation as thirty or forty women found their seats and said good evening to their fellow students. Susan followed suit as she settled down, and then busied herself arranging her notebook and pen. The latter David had bought her, a wedding present and a promise for her studies; it fitted perfectly in her hand, worn with use and gratitude.

At last there was a rattle on the lectern and the remaining stragglers took their seats.

'Good evening, students of Mills College. It is an honour to be speaking with you tonight.'

And just like that, the world turned once more.

Though she hadn't heard his voice in more than a decade, it didn't take any more than that. He stood on the stage with an unassuming air, a little uneasy in the spotlight, but she recognised every piece of him. His clothes were different - no more all-weather travel clothes or well-worn shoes, he wore a very fine suit tonight with a wine red waistcoat - but the rest of him was... identical.

She leant on her desk to stare at him, her breath stolen by the shock. Thirteen years. _Thirteen years_, and he bore the very same smile as he introduced himself, the same warm eyes.

'I am Professor Anderson, and I will be your lecturer this evening on the new electrocardiograph mechanism created by our esteemed colleague in the Netherlands, Mr Willem Einthoven.'

Everyone clapped politely, and he nodded and gestured over his shoulder to the large, sheet-covered object behind him.

'I'm delighted to say that today I have the honour of showing you a prototype example that has been sent to this country for testing, thanks to the generosity of a good friend of mine, and with your help we may even be able to provide a practical demonstration of its use.'

There were a few gasps.

The lecture began. Susan did listen, of course - the subject, the history of its creation and iteration, the practical and theoretical applications, were all fascinating - but it was less easy for her to keep notes than usual. Her quick hand stayed idle as she watched Mr Grant, or was it Anderson, pacing back and forth across the stage in his excited delivery of the facts. If his face or his voice had left her in any doubt, this last was enough to reassure her: His clear love for the sharing of knowledge made her heart swell with remembered joy, the undoubtable recognition of the first person to truly understand her passionate curiosity. This _was_ the same man. She would have banked her own life on it.

She knew she had to speak to him. If nothing else, she had to thank him. Her whole life had been changed by his visit, the walls of her world torn down, a new freedom offered - there was no measure for it.

And she wanted to know, with a painful sort of feeling in her chest, if he remembered her even one iota so vividly.

There was no hesitation in her mind when he asked for a volunteer, no matter the chilly evening or how he had described the procedure. She stood up at once, almost knocking her papers onto the floor.

He met her gaze with a smile that was unreadable. It was impossible to tell if he knew her. She made her way down to the floor carefully, self-conscious under the whispering stares of her fellow students, and he helped her onto the stage; his hand felt very cold.

'Good evening, ma'am. Thank you for volunteering. As I explained, you will need to bare both your arms and your left leg below the knee, that they may be immersed in the saline solution. Are you happy to do so?'

'Yes, doctor. Professor.'

'Very good. You may make yourself ready behind the screen, if you wish.'

She hurried to obey. As she shed her coat he was still talking to the others, but she could no longer focus on the words, all her thoughts bent on his presence.

He _hadn't_ changed. Not even a fraction. No line on his face was different, no hair out of place, no single streak of grey. He was utterly identical to the man she had met thirteen years ago. Now her eyes were drawn to different details, of course - a woman's eye, no longer a girl's - but she knew him like he were part of her. His image had been etched into her mind over the years, an outline of the first person to ever believe in her, against whom all others were compared. Only a few were his equal; David was highest among them, some of her professors and lecturers close behind, and far in the distance her parents, once they had finally begun to accept her ambitions.

With the sleeves of her blouse rolled up and one stocking removed, she walked nervously back into the public eye. He turned to greet her with a smile once more, bowing his head politely.

'Ah, very good. Well, ma'am, I hope the water has not cooled completely. If you experience any discomfort, please inform me at once. Now, if you would care to take a seat...'

The chair was a little awkward, but it was at least cushioned. He helped her carefully to place her arms into the receptacles of lukewarm water at her sides, and then knelt on the stage before her to do the same with her bare foot. Again she was struck by his cool hands, but his touch was very gentle and calm, and perfectly businesslike and proper. Despite the oddly personal nature of the moment, she found herself at ease. She almost forgot about the audience.

'When the electromagnetic field forms a circuit through these three electrodes, you may feel a tingling or prickling sensation,' he told her evenly as he returned to his feet. 'This is quite natural, given the electricity involved, but it has no ill effects. Please don't be afraid.'

'I'm not afraid,' Susan said with a faint smile.

He nodded, and then turned back to the crowd. 'Now, you may wish to observe closely,' he said more loudly. 'With the machine running, we will begin to see the action of the so-called 'string', the fine quartz and silver fibre in this part of the mechanism. As Miss Darrow's heart beats, the faint electrical signals will be picked up through the electrodes at her hands and foot and reflected through the fibres, creating a pattern that can be described through the terminology Einthoven has coined - as we discussed earlier.'

Susan listened as he talked on, but her thoughts were stuck in a knot around one thing: _Miss Darrow_.

_So he does remember me_, she thought. The smile was so strong it almost hurt.

When he switched the machine on, Susan felt the slight buzzing sensation in her palms. She watched as Professor Anderson indicated the different elements of the machine and described what they were doing, and then, at last, the results. There were a number of collective gasps and exclamations as he showed the tracing to the room.

'As you can see, we have here a remarkably clear diagram of the rhythm created by Miss Darrow's heartbeat. Of course, at this moment in time we have quite limited data to compare it to, so the diagnostic potential is still in its infancy - but I can say I'm quite happy with the results. You have a fine, strong heart, madam.'

He bowed his head to Susan, and there was a general polite titter from the crowd. Although she was sure it was ridiculous, Susan felt a swell of pride.

A little while after that the machine was switched off, and Susan dried herself on the towel that had been left behind the screen while Professor Anderson continued speaking. When she was properly dressed again she retreated to her desk, but there was little left of the lecture. Soon he was asking for their questions, and for once in her life, Susan couldn't put them all into words.

While the rest of the students queried the details of the lecture, she sat quietly. She stayed that way even as the questions ended and the crowd began to file out of the room. Her eyes stayed on the professor on the stage as he began to gather his notes and put the cover back over the machine.

At last she could wait no longer, so she walked quietly back to where he was checking his things and cleared her throat.

'Good evening,' she said.

He looked up at her and gave her the softest smile.

'And to you. Can I help you?'

'I wanted to thank you for the very interesting lecture,' she offered, and paused. 'I'm afraid I must correct you on one point, however.'

'By all means. I always appreciate being provided with a fuller understanding,' he said wryly.

She smiled at him innocently. 'It isn't Miss Darrow anymore,' she said. 'I'm Mrs Heartley now.'

For a moment he seemed frozen, and then his face broke and he gave a quiet chuckle.

'Ah... I never did ask your name, did I? How exceptionally rude of me, and careless.' He shook his head. 'I am delighted to be able to congratulate you, then, Mrs Heartley. I would ask after your health, but as we have seen, you seem very well indeed.'

'I am, and thank you,' Susan answered, laughing softly. 'I don't know what to say to you, sir. Or what name to call you by, in fact. Did I misremember my facts when I thought to call you Alastair Grant?'

He only shrugged. 'I have never given much credence to names, at least my own. I've worn quite a number in my life, so you may call me whatever you wish, Mrs Heartley.'

'I see,' she said thoughtfully. 'I'm afraid I am a creature of habit, so I would like to call you Alastair.'

'By all means.' His eyes crinkled with amusement.

'Then since we are being so informal, Alastair, I must ask you to call me Susan.'

He nodded. 'It would be my pleasure, Susan. But I believe the custodian wishes to close up the hall momentarily. May I walk you to your transport?'

She took his arm. 'Thank you, Alastair.'

As they entered the corridor he looked down at her thoughtfully.

'I must say I am quite delighted to see you again, and that you are here at Mills College. I asked after you a year or two ago, but I was told there was no one of that name here.'

'I've been married for nearly five years now,' she said. 'Perhaps that was the trouble.'

'Perhaps. When I spoke to Mrs Mills, she said nobody had come to her with my name, however. I did fear that perhaps you had chosen to stay in Benson.'

Susan cast her gaze aside. 'No, I left Benson quite some time ago. I moved to San Francisco to find work, and I met my husband there. But I never did speak to Mrs Mills about you. I wanted to earn my place here for myself.'

'Ah...' Alastair smiled. 'A respectable intent. I'm very glad you chose to come here, after all.'

'I always wanted to. David - my husband - had been a great support to me.'

'Good,' Alastair said, giving her a thoughtful look. 'I'm pleased to hear that.'

Susan smiled softly. 'He has always encouraged me very much,' she said. 'He takes an improper amount of pride in my meagre accomplishments, I think. He isn't an academic man himself, by most definitions, as he does struggle rather with his letters and numbers, but he thinks very highly of a good education and he wanted me to have that if I wanted it.'

'That is an honourable position to be in,' Alastair noted. 'Not all of us are made for every task in human nature - some favour the academic, others the practical or the empathetic. We may all find our place, God willing, and admire the same in others whether or not we understand their burdens.'

Susan nodded and was quiet for a moment as they walked. Looking at him sidelong in the shadows of the echoing corridors, he seemed far less like an ordinary man than he had once in the summer sun. Now he seemed beautiful, in a strange way; gaunt of face and somehow distant, but lovely in that particular manner that you can't quite explain but that draws you in. There was a luminous nature about him, almost shining in the dark.

'And what are _your_ burdens, Alastair?' she asked softly.

He chuckled and winked at her lightly. 'Not for you to understand, my dear. Tell me more of David. How does he make his living?'

'He is with the navy,' Susan answered. She knew perfectly well that he was trying to distract her, but she wondered if there was any reason to debate him on it. Perhaps it was best for him to keep his secrets.

They ambled slowly out of the college and down the tree-lined avenue, still talking. When they reached the street, however, Susan glanced around.

'How are you getting home tonight?' Alastair enquired.

Susan sighed. 'I appear to have missed the last bus, so it seems I shall be walking.'

He gave her a serious look. 'Is it far for you to go?'

'Not very. Perhaps forty minutes.'

He frowned. 'That is a long way at this time of night, especially for a young woman alone.'

'I'll be alright.'

'May I walk you back? I would hate for you to come to any trouble.'

Susan hesitated. It wasn't very proper to be seen walking such a long way with a strange man, but then again, she wasn't sure she cared. No one else knew Alastair or why she was so happy to see him. There was no indecency in it, only gratitude.

'That is very kind of you. Thank you.'

'How old is your son?' he asked as she led the way down the road.

'George is nearly four.' She bit her lip. 'He's a very sweet boy, good natured. I do worry about him, though, I must admit. He doesn't speak much as yet. It's very late.'

'Does he have any words at all?'

'A few. Mother and Father, please and thank you, that sort of thing.'

'Then I wouldn't be concerned, myself. He clearly doesn't lack comprehension or ability. Some children just need a little more time to be comfortable with the complexity of communication. Keep making conversation with him and not expecting too much, and one day he may surprise you.'

Susan laughed a little, relieved at the thought. 'Oh, you're probably right. Is it foolish of me that I see other little boys and wonder if I am doing something terribly wrong with mine? Most children his age are such chatter-boxes, it's quite charming, so I can't help fearing that I've made some mistake with George to keep him so quiet.'

Alastair smiled and patted her hand on his arm lightly. 'I'm sure most parents would fear the same, but I don't think you need concern yourself. These things take time. Every child is a little different from the last, so you needn't compare him to others for guidance.'

'I will do my best,' she agreed with a smile.

The time passed so very quickly and easily with him by her side. They walked a little slowly, Susan finding her pace lagging more and more as they got closer to the Heartleys' house and the moment that she would have to say goodbye. She found the familiar thoughts returning to her, of trying to ask everything she could while she had the chance, and she had to smile a little at her childish sorrow.

'Alastair, I must ask,' she said quietly, 'is there any chance I will see you again?'

He looked down at her, a crease of worry or perhaps regret between his brows.

'I'm sorry, Susan, but I don't think that's possible.'

She sighed. 'I had a feeling that would be the case.'

'I don't often find myself in the same place twice. It was a favour, returning to Mills, and one that I knew was a risk.' He smiled wryly. 'And I did run into you, of course, so it would have been wiser for me to stay away. But... I'm very glad I met you again, Susan. It is a joy for me to see you so well. You have made so much of your life.'

'Thanks to you,' she said fiercely. 'I could never have left Benson without your encouragement, and your gift! Oh, all those books. You changed my life, Alastair.'

'If I have served you at all then it was my honour,' he said gently. 'But I did not bring you here, that was your own strength of character. I'm so very glad you have chosen to use that excellent mind of yours. One day still I hope to see your name on the pages of your own book. You will tell me if that happens, won't you?'

'How would I do that, oh mystery man?' she said with a laugh. 'If I shall never see you again, I mean.'

He chuckled. 'Ah, well, an excellent point. You may still write to me, if you ever need it.' He pulled a card out of the pocket of his waistcoat and offered it to her. 'This is the address where you can reach me, no matter where I am working. When you have news of your accomplishments I would be very grateful to hear it. And of course if you ever need my help, please don't hesitate to ask for it. I will do anything I can.'

She took the card and held it like a lifeline. 'I will write when I have anything to tell. Thank you, Alastair. That means a great deal to me.'

They were on her doorstep, and she wished that, like a child, she could cling to him in her careless need for comfort - but she was no child anymore, and it wouldn't be right.

'Thank _you_, Susan,' he said softly. 'My calling will always be to care for people's physical forms, but there is nothing that brings me more pride than the chance to help someone to expand their mind. It has been a great joy to see that you have grown into such an admirable, intelligent, _good_ young woman. I don't doubt for a moment that you will continue to blossom into one of God's true gifts to the earth.'

Flushed with the unexpected praise, she felt a curious sort of pain in her heart and had to hide it with a smile. 'You are very kind, sir. I hope your travels treat you well, wherever you go, and whatever names you use.' She took his hands in hers and held them tightly for a moment, overcome with a homesick kind of affection. 'I'm so very grateful to you, Alastair. For everything.'

He only nodded, and she found she couldn't stand his gaze any longer.

'Goodnight,' she said, and hurried inside. The little card was still clutched in her gloved hand, more precious than all the treasures in the world.

On the doorstep, lit still by the flickering light of the street lamps, the man stood for a few more moments and looked up at the stars. Then he pulled down his hat and walked away into the night.

* * *

**Author's note**: I have a horrible shame about this chapter because I fudged so much of the scientific history. I swear I did _try_ to research it. Basically there's no way Carlisle would have had the Einthoven electrocardiograph in this year in this place, and also the model at this time was a huge, bulky thing that was tough to transport anywhere and took several people to use. The technology described in this chapter is much closer to the version that was built commercially close to ten years later. But what the hell, I chose my own screw-ups and I'll stand by them. Let's just pretend he had access to an early prototype of the later model and go with that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Oakland, California_

_Fall 1911_

'What are we going to do now?'

George held his mother's hand tightly. He was staring at her, imploring, needing her answer, and she couldn't find one.

With a sigh, she put down the letter from the bank and then put her arm around his shoulders and held him close.

'I don't know, darling. That's a complicated question. I've looked over our finances and I'm afraid that even with your father's pension, none of the work I can find will be enough for us to keep this house.' She kissed the top of her son's head. 'But I'll think very hard about it, and we shall find a solution. No problem is insurmountable, you know. You won't let it upset you, will you, darling?'

'I won't,' he said, but his eyes drifted to the armchair by the window. They both looked at it for a moment.

'I miss him too,' Susan whispered.

They twined their fingers together and sat quietly, thinking of all the empty spaces that before had seemed like promises, and now were just reminders of an absence.

That night she sat by George's bed for an hour or more while they read together, talking of adventures and far off places.

'Wouldn't it be fun if we went to live on a tropical island, like the Robinsons?' he said wistfully.

'It would. It might be almost as warm as Arizona,' she said, smiling. 'Do you remember visiting your aunts in Benson?'

'Of course I remember, I wasn't that little,' George said sternly.

She chuckled. 'You were only four, darling. That is quite a long time ago.'

'Well, I remember anyway.'

'Would you like to visit again?'

They shared a thoughtful look.

'I wouldn't mind if we visited, but I don't think I should like to live there,' George said slowly. 'It was very hot, really, and not even an island, so you couldn't go swimming on the coral reefs to cool off.'

'That's true,' Susan said, and kissed his cheek. 'It would be nice to see your aunts and cousins again, though. I'll write to Belinda and see if we might go and see them for Christmas this year. It won't be quite so hot in December, after all.'

When she had said goodnight, she closed the door quietly and crossed the hall to her office. Lighting the lamp on her desk, she sat for a little while and gazed out of the window at the twinkling glow of San Francisco across the bay.

'What do I do now, David?' she whispered to the glass. 'How do we go on without you?'

There was no one to answer her, and she shed some quiet tears as the clouds slipped softly by and the moon glittered off the distant sea.

Then she wiped her cheeks and smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt and opened the desk drawer. Pulling out her address book, the corner caught on something and she heard a few pages rip. With more care, she lifted the damaged contents and spread them on the desk.

Her sister's address was unharmed, but as she flicked through the pages a sliver fell out. She picked it up and turned it over in her fingers. It was a neatly printed postal address on a small square of card, and there was no name with it.

She didn't need to be reminded.

'Alastair,' she murmured, and sighed.

She hadn't written to him. Plenty of times she had thought of it - when she had graduated from Mills, when she had written her first paper (though it had been rejected from _Science_ magazine, she was still proud of it), when George had started school and they had told her he had the finest diction in his class... And when David had died. So many times she had wanted to talk to Alastair, like a close friend in her mind despite their meagre acquaintance, but each time she had told herself it wasn't right. He was a busy man, with far more important concerns than her very ordinary life, and as yet she hadn't anything to show for all her efforts.

Still... He had told her, '_If you ever need my help, please don't hesitate to ask for it_'. She didn't doubt his word, only her own necessity, and now, if ever, there seemed to be a need. What he could do she couldn't imagine, but of anyone living, it was his advice she craved the most.

She smoothed out a sheet of fresh paper and began to write.

_Dear Alastair..._

It took her days to decide exactly what to say to him. There seemed to much to talk to him about, but she did her best to remember that their relationship was not so intimate as her warm feelings towards him implied and to keep her enquiries and explanations to the point.

When it was done, she paid for the stamps and handed it to the post office worker and then walked down the street towards the bank, wondering if it would really make it all the way to the address in Detroit. That seemed like a world away, and she couldn't imagine how long it would take for it to reach him, if at all. Seven years had passed. There was no reason to be sure he still had a mailbox there.

The leaves fell. Susan began to tidy up around the house; it was strange to find how much clutter one accumulated over time, often without even noticing. She sold as much as she could, though she knew it upset George to see the gaps where the candlesticks and the good china had been. It helped a little with the bills, but she knew she was only buying time, and at a high price.

The only things she was truly loath to sell were the books. Occasionally she would sit up well into the evening sorting through the shelves, trying to convince herself to get rid of each one. So many of them had been gifts from David, or part of her studies, or had come with her all the way from Benson. It hurt to think of losing them, each one as dear to her as an old friend. Few of them were worth anything, either, so she told herself it wasn't a good use of her time and left them alone as much as she could.

It was almost December when the post boy dropped off the letters one morning and she saw among the usual bills a heavy white envelope that made her heart stutter for a moment.

Sitting at the breakfast table while George pored over the cartoons in the newspaper, she carefully slit the envelope with a knife and pulled out the folded letter within.

_Dear Susan,_ it read.

_I am so sorry to hear of your loss. Second only to that, I am exceedingly glad that you decided to write me on this matter. I have given some thought to your situation, which I hope has remained stable since you sent your letter, and I would like to make a suggestion._

_You said in your letter that you have now graduated as a nurse from Mills. While that is a valuable profession and I have no doubt you could find some work anywhere, I know you have a son to support, and given your qualifications and your fine mind, I immediately thought of a friend of mine who is looking for an assistant. It would not be nursing, specifically, but a more technical role, supporting his research and experimental studies. He is called Alfred Peterson, and he is a Professor of advanced biology and physiology at Philadelphia University._

_This would be a long way for you to move, I realise, but I cannot speak highly enough of Peterson. He is an exceptional doctor, though retired now from practising medicine, and is always looking to the future of medical science. I feel you would do very well with him, and he with you, as he respects a mind as sharp as yours and would value your input in his work._

_I must apologise for such forwardness on my part, but I have already spoken with him about you and he has agreed that he would be grateful to have you, if you decide you are interested in the position. When I spoke to him he suggested a wage of £10 a week, with Saturdays and Sundays off. I also happen to know that several of his children have recently left home, and he and his wife may have room for tenants._

_Regarding your son, there are a number of very fine schools in Philadelphia. With the wage Peterson is happy to offer you, and assuming you took room and board with him and his wife, I believe you would have your pick of the institutions for young George._

_I quite understand if all this is considerably beyond what you were hoping for when you wrote, and if it is outside of your means or desires then it will trouble no one. I only hope to see you and your son well and happy. Again, I apologise if I have overstepped my bounds._

_All those practical concerns aside, I must say that I hope you are doing well in other respects. While you must be struggling bitterly with the loss of your husband, it seems from your letter that you are rising to the financial situation you find yourself in with aplomb. It relieves me to sense such fortitude in your words - though of course it does not surprise me._

_I have attached the address of Peterson and his family in case you do decide to take up his offer. Please do write to tell me either way, as I find myself worrying over you at the oddest hours these days._

_Respectfully yours,_

_Alastair_

'George,' Susan said quietly.

He looked up at her uncertainly. 'Yes, Mother?'

'What do you think of the idea of moving away from California?'

He considered for a moment, spoon midway between bowl and mouth. 'I suppose it could be alright.'

'What about a very _long_ way away?'

Sitting up a little straighter, he gave her a knowing sort of look. 'Where to?'

She smiled wryly. 'Pennsylvania.'

'Oh. I thought you might mean the South Pacific,' he sighed.

Chuckling, she shook her head. 'Not quite as exciting, I'm afraid, but I think it might suit us quite well. I've been offered a good job there.'

George folded up the newspaper carefully and pushed it aside. 'I suppose that's quite important,' he agreed uncertainly. 'Do they have trains there?'

Susan smiled and shuffled the other two slips of paper that had been tucked into the envelope. 'Yes, I think they do.'

'Then I suppose it wouldn't be so bad.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Philadelphia, Pennsylvania_

_Spring 1915_

The paper tore loudly as she pulled it out of the rose bushes.

'Oh, what a nuisance,' Mrs Peterson grumbled, picking her way over to the front of the garden where Susan was working. 'I'm sure it's all very important, but it's dreadfully rude of the boys taking the fliers round, tossing them right into the garden like that.'

'I suppose they were in a hurry,' Susan said absently, smoothing out the tattered paper and trying to read the words as best she could. Most of it was still clear enough.

_Join the Red Cross_

_America's answer to humanity's challenge._

In smaller letters below that, it read:

_Graduate nurses, your country needs you._

_Don't hesitate to safe a life._

She sighed and crumpled up the flier, putting it into her apron pocket. 'Would you like me to get the rest down as well?'

'Thank you, dear, you're that much taller than I am,' Mrs Peterson said with a chuckle. 'I'd more likely get caught up there myself!'

It didn't take very long to pluck the remaining fluttering pieces of paper out of the thorns. Mrs Peterson held up the basket for them, tutting as the roses on the fence lost their white and yellow garland. All along the street, similar showers of paper had decorated the gardens of their neighbours, and others were out tidying things up as well. She called across the road to Mrs Jones and they grumbled about it together while Susan worked.

'I'll take this inside, Mrs Peterson,' Susan said as she removed the last one and took the basket in her arms.

'Thank you dear, you are a mercy.'

'It's really no trouble.'

Susan carried the waste paper back inside to the kitchen, where it would go to make perfectly good fire-lighters. She sat down in front of the stove, though, and took out the first leaflet quite carefully and un-crumpled the paper enough to read it.

_The Red Cross nurse_

_carries our soldiers_

_out of sickness_

_out of darkness_

_back to the light_

_of Good Health._

_Join the Red Cross today._

She sighed. Somewhere in her chest a heavy weight was sitting, as it had for nearly a year. The face of her son floated through her thoughts, knowing and accusatory. She crumpled the flier again and tossed it into the tinder box.

As she tossed them all away, snippets of words snagged at her thoughts like the thorns of Mrs Peterson's roses. _Service... Mercy... Suffering... Help..._

Stuffing the last scraps away, she put the waste basket back where it belonged and then hurried upstairs. At her desk in the little apartment she pulled out her file of letters and then sat by the window with the last one to read the words again.

_My dearest Susan,_

_I have decided that it is long past time. My ticket is on the table beside me as I write: I am going to Europe. We have all been watching things get worse and worse, and I cannot justify my absence any longer. There is no greater need right now for me to tend to. I must see to the soldiers._

_Is it wrong of me, my friend, to mourn already? I feel very tired as I wait for the day I leave. Most of all I think of you, and I wonder when I might next read your letters. I have grown used to them, and it brings me great delight to find the envelopes waiting for me whenever I am at home. I can no longer imagine their absence. What a fearful thing._

The front door banged and George's voice echoed up the stairwell. 'Mother, I'm home!'

Guiltily, Susan put the letters back in the drawer and hurried downstairs.

* * *

The front office was a hive of activity when Susan tentatively went inside and looked around the next morning. Men and boys were hurrying back and forth with armloads of supplies and fliers and boxes of envelopes, but there were far more women there. White uniforms dominated the room, and older nurses with their badges on their sleeves called orders back and forth.

'Good afternoon, ma'am,' a young woman said from behind the counter. 'Are you here to make a donation, or to send a letter?'

The posters on the walls stared down at the scene, the pictured women holding their heads high with pride and righteousness. Susan felt her heart flutter with uncertainty, and then she looked back at the girl behind the desk, with her white stripe around her arm and its Red Cross emblem, and she steeled herself to her decision.

'I'm here to join,' she said, putting the pamphlet she had saved onto the counter. 'I'm a qualified nurse. I want to go to France.'

The girl's eyes lit up. 'Oh, that's wonderful, ma'am. I'll just fetch Nurse Keeler, I'm afraid I'm quite new so she'll be able to help you better.'

Susan stood quietly among the rush, watching people pass this way and that while she waited. It was chaotic to look at, but there was purpose here. Everyone knew their task and, from their faces, they were proud to do it. She sighed. It was a relief to have finally made the first step.

When she got home that evening she kissed George's cheek and listened as he talked animatedly to Mr Peterson about the afternoon's lesson on locomotion. After supper, she followed her son to their suite where he was tidying his workbooks for the morning.

'Darling, I have to speak with you,' she said quietly, leaning in the doorway.

George looked up from where his school things were spread about the floor. 'What about?' He looked suddenly suspicious. 'Have you decided to marry again?'

She laughed, taken aback. 'Oh goodness, no. Nothing like that. But I... Well, we've talked a great deal about the war in Europe.'

He frowned at her. 'I know. I'm too young to join up,' he said grudgingly.

'Well, that's rather what I have to tell you,' she sighed.

For a moment he looked baffled, and then realisation struck and he glared at her. 'You _didn't_.'

'George...'

He jumped to his feet. 'Mother! You promised! You said you wouldn't go, you _promised!_'

'I'm sorry darling. I need to discuss it with you, that's why I'm talking to you now.'

He stamped to the window and back, hands balling into fists. 'That isn't _fair_, you can't forbid me to join the navy and then tell me you're going to go right into a battlefield. I won't listen. You _can't_.'

Picking her way through the schoolbag debris on the floor, Susan took a seat on the edge of the bed and put her hands in her lap. 'You're quite right, George,' she said quietly. 'It isn't fair. I've had to do a great deal of thinking about it. But I'd like to discuss it with you again and see if we can come to an accord.'

For a moment more he glowered at her, and then he threw himself down beside her, leaning on his knees and scowling accusingly at the floor.

'I've put in my application to the American Red Cross,' Susan said, following his gaze and staring through the mess. 'I only did it this morning. If when we've finished talking about this you still don't agree that it's right for me to go, then I will go back tomorrow and rescind it. I won't go if you really can't stand it.'

He grunted darkly.

'You remember my friend Alastair, don't you? The doctor whom I write to.'

'Of course I do. He gave us the tickets to move here.'

'That's right.' She sighed. 'In November he wrote to tell me that he was going to France to join the efforts there. I've heard from him a little since then, but I haven't had a letter now in three months, and... Well, I've been thinking about it very hard, and I've decided not to be sad or worry. He knew what he was doing when he went, and he decided to go anyway. But what I do know is that there are not enough doctors or nurses out there, and more are injured or too exhausted to work every day.'

'All the more reason you shouldn't go,' George said fiercely. 'It's no good. I won't let you.'

'I understand,' she said softly. 'I promise you I do. But when we talked before, about you wanting to enlist, that made me think too. So many other men and boys _have_ joined up, or didn't have a choice at all and were conscripted, and they are out there dying every day. I thought about the other mothers and wives and children who are still waiting for news of their darlings, and it made me realise that I think it would be very selfish for me not to go just because I was frightened. I wouldn't be going there to add to the harm, I want to go and help people. If I can bring even one young man home who might otherwise never make it... That seems worth the risk, don't you agree?'

They sat in silence for a little while as they both considered the point. Finally George reached for her and took her hand in his.

'I don't want you to go,' he said slowly. 'But I understand, and you should if you want to.'

Susan leant her head against his and smiled softly. 'Thank you.'

'You'll write every day?'

'_Every_ day.'

'And you'll promise not to get hurt.'

'I will do my very best. Whatever I must do, I will do it, if it will bring me home to you again. You have my word.'

Suddenly he clung to her, pressing his face against her blouse. 'You _must_ come home, you must, you _must_...'

She kissed his hair. 'I will. Nothing in the world can keep me away.'

They sat for a time in quiet contemplation, both wondering at the truth of her words. At last she brushed the hair back from his brow and looked him in the eye seriously.

'What matters to me most is that you are well while I am gone,' she said firmly. 'So. I have spoken to Mr and Mrs Peterson, and they are happy for you to stay here with them if you wish, but if you would rather return to California and stay with your grandparents, or even Arizona, of course you may. Would you prefer to be with your family?'

He scoffed. 'Of course I want to stay here. I don't want to change schools.'

She smiled. 'I thought as much, but you know you can change your mind if you ever need to. I will leave your grandparents' addresses with you, and your aunts in Benson and Tuscon. You can go wherever you please, darling. I'll go to the bank in the morning and set up an allowance for you, to be managed by Mr Peterson for the moment as you are only fourteen, but I will leave strict instructions that if you need the money for anything important like travel or some emergency, it's yours.'

'I don't want money,' he muttered hopelessly. 'I just want you to be safe.'

There were tears welling in his eyes. She kissed his brow.

'I will take good care of myself, on one condition.'

He started and glared at her. 'What?'

'That you do the same,' she said, and tweaked his ear. 'Promise me you will.'

He groaned. 'Of course I will. I'm nearly a man now, mother.'

'Oh, that's no comfort, grown men cause all kinds of trouble!' she laughed. 'Be good. Be kind. Stay close with those you trust. I know you will be very well.'

'Will you be alone there?' he asked uncertainly.

She hesitated. 'No, not as such. I'm sure there will be a lot of other nurses and doctors, and all of our patients, of course.'

'But you won't have any friends.'

'That's the thing about going somewhere new,' she said gently. 'You must make new friends for yourself, like we did when we came here. Besides, I'm sure I will be far too busy to be very lonely. And you shall write to me too, of course.'

'Of course.'

They hugged each other tightly for a moment.

'I must go and speak to Mr Peterson about the money,' she said quietly. 'We will talk more in the morning. Alright?'

He nodded.

'Goodnight, darling.'

'Goodnight, Mother.'

She closed the door behind her. As she walked down the corridor, she hoped that all her promises wouldn't be completely worthless in the end.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Near Reims, France_

_Winter 1915_

Susan was used to hearing strange sounds in the dark these days. Still, sitting in her cot as she penned her evening letter to her son, she wondered at first if she was imagining things when she heard the distant strains of music.

Putting aside her pen and paper, she got up and went to the door. Outside it was a little clearer, the sound meandering across the darkened camp from the direction of the mess hall.

She glanced at the clock. Just past eight. Supper would be ready very soon, so her letter would have to wait for later anyway. Perhaps there was no harm in going to see what was happening.

Tidying up her hair and smoothing the worst of the creases from her uniform, she hurried through the icy slush to the door of the mess.

It was warm and bright inside, full of the smells of cooking, and to her amazement several people were sitting at the end of the room with instruments. There were a number of men and women playing, some wounded soldiers and some medical staff, and an older woman whom she recognised from the kitchens was singing in a beautifully rich voice, though Susan didn't understand the words. Some of the other nurses were already dancing, and most of the crowd were tapping their feet. For the first time in weeks, Susan realised, she looked around the room and saw more smiles than tears.

With a contented sigh, she leant against the wall and watched the dancers, a tender feeling in her heart. There was laughter and excitement in the air, an energy she hadn't felt in far too long - not the stress and pain and tension of the recent months, but honest pleasure.

A young man was sitting on a chair nearby, his crutches resting beside him. His uniform pants were British Army, but he had only his shirtsleeves over that, and a wistful look in his eye as he watched the dancers. She recognised him from surgery some little time ago; a shrapnel wound to the leg. It had been healing well, from what she had heard.

She tapped him on the shoulder lightly. 'Would you care to join me?' she asked lightly. 'I haven't danced in an age, I'm afraid, so I may be rather a poor partner.'

His face lit up and he pushed himself to his feet. 'Ah, that's no trouble, miss. I'm still a bit slow on my feet, but if you'd like...?'

She took his arm, smiling, and pulled him lightly onto the makeshift dance floor. The hubbub was comfortable and pleasing, full of humour and ease, and they joined in a gentle waltz, chuckling as they fumbled and found the right pace.

The music and dancing lasted well into the evening. The kitchen staff served dinner late and as a buffet, eager to join the party, and nobody was much inclined to stop for it. Susan's partner needed to rest after a little while, but another man offered his arm and she took it warmly. The moment felt rare and precious, and she was loath to let it pass.

Later, as people began to tire, the scratch band moved on to slower ballads and Christmas tunes. The singer asked around in her own language and there was an enthusiastic response, so she led a makeshift choir in several hymns, while the kitchen offered around hot cocoa and a precious ration of cookies all the way from England.

'What a lovely evening,' Susan said, sitting beside her British friend for a rest.

He only nodded as he gazed at her, a look on his face a little like awe. She pretended not to notice, though it made her smile a little; it was flattering to be called 'miss' again, and to be given such admiring glances. When the band returned to dancing tunes, she took his hand again and led him into another waltz, enjoying the way he held her close and gently like she were made of gossamer.

It was nearly midnight when there was a clatter at the door. The band stopped playing instantly, everyone on the alert. The commandant came inside, brushing sleet from his hat, and looked around with a wan expression.

'The number seven dressing station at Reims has just been shelled out,' he said, and a murmur of horror ran around the room. 'There were casualties among the staff, so they have requested emergency nurses, to move out at once. Volunteers, _s'il vous plaît_?'

Susan stepped forward without hesitation. 'I'll go.'

Several others spoke up at once.

'Good. Gather your things quickly, I'm told someone will be here to collect you soon,' the commandant said, and disappeared back into the night.

Susan looked back at her partner, whose smile had faded into an uneasy dread.

'I'm sorry to cut short the dance,' she said gently. 'It was delightful. Thank you.'

'And you, miss. Goodbye.' He shook his head. 'Best of luck.'

Hurrying back through the icy slush to her bunk, Susan gathered her meagre belongings, shoving them back into her duffel bag. She put on her heavy greatcoat and cap, remembered her book under the pillow and tucked that into her pocket, and then stepped back into the starless winter darkness.

The handful of volunteers met in the gloom beside the mess hall, shivering and clutching their luggage, while inside the muted sound of music began again, but more solemnly now.

'How far away is number seven?' somebody asked.

'Not sure, I haven't been out to the forward station before.'

'Bad luck. Better brace yourself.'

'I hope we don't have to wait long, it's freezing out tonight.'

'At least we had our supper first. I've had worse call-outs.'

They were shuffling their feet and rubbing their hands to keep warm when they heard a loud vehicle somewhere down the road. After a minute or two the truck pulled up and stopped, engine still rumbling. A man leapt out, his face and hair almost white in the dark.

'Good evening, everyone. Thank you for agreeing to join us,' he said, and his soft, low voice sent waves of shock through Susan's body.

She didn't meet his gaze as they all climbed into the van, but she didn't hesitate in taking the front seat, either.

In a matter of moments he was back behind the wheel and revving the engine, and they bounced back across the rough turning circle towards the road. The cold night air nipped at Susan's cheeks, and behind her she could just hear the muffled sound of conversation in the protected rear compartment.

Finally she let herself look at him. In the gloom she knew she should doubt her own eyes, but she didn't. There was precedent, after all. She was sure of it: He was utterly unchanged, a mirror of himself eight years before - and seemingly of every year before that. His narrow jaw and pronounced cheekbones seemed like hard lines, white as the bone beneath, but all of him seemed tender as he turned his head a fraction and smiled at her.

'Susan,' he said, though she saw it on his lips more than she heard it amid the thunderous rattle of the engine and the ragged roads.

She only nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

After that there was no time to talk for three days.

They arrived into chaos. The station had been forced to move from a set of outbuildings, four medical staff and more than fifteen wounded lost along with much in the way of supplies. The new position was in construction, tents half erected and still open to the night, people crying in agony, those that could struggling to do everything and achieving less than was needed. The place was a sea of mud, barely lit and utterly disorganised.

Susan watched her old friend take command as they unloaded. The commandant seemed to have vanished, dead or absconded, and it was apparent that nobody was prepared for that eventuality, but despite the doctor's quiet manner people seemed to listen to him easily. His words held weight, practical and steady, brooking no argument. It seemed to reassure everyone, even Susan. Then she joined the work, of course, and observation became virtually impossible in the frenzy of emergency.

Sleep that night was out of the question. Dawn came and they were still hard at work, shoring up the tents, keeping out the worst of the weather, performing the best medicine they could amid the filth and the ice and the misery while more men poured in from the front with every hour. The horse-drawn ambulances were struggling to keep up with the pace as men were treated and loaded aboard to go back to the clearing station or the front. Susan had never seen so many injured men at once, and the smells and sounds began to make her dizzy until she had to stand outside for a few moments and breathe in the frosty air.

Much like that, the day slipped by so fast that sunset took Susan by surprise. As she passed from one tent to another, pausing for a moment to collect herself, she leant against the nearest support for and shaded her eyes to see the bloody evening sky.

'Get some rest, nurse,' said a familiar voice from close beside her. She turned to meet his gaze, but he was already passing by, boxes of bandages piled high in his arms.

'I'll rest when you do,' she called after him sharply.

He shook his head and gave her a hard look, but he was in too much of a hurry to stop and argue.

The second night was calmer than the first. The worst of the construction was complete, and the battle seemed to have eased somewhat so their situation was less overwhelming. Despite her words, Susan did snatch an hour or two of sleep at some point, propped in a corner with her coat wrapped around her shoulders. Then she woke, drank the burning hot tea that was handed to her and went back to work.

The hours blurred together into a messy stream of people in her mind, faces full of pain and pleading, all their needs so far beyond her ability to meet. The sun rose behind a bank of bleak clouds, and they followed it all through the day until it retreated in defeat beyond the horizon.

Relief came at twilight, two horse-drawn ambulances of reinforcement staff from other stations appearing as dusk fell, their lamps shining through the rising mist. A new commandant came with them, and he took over the situation at once. Everyone who had been on duty for the past three days was gathered together, given fresh blankets and hot food, and told to get some sleep while the new shift began. There was no transport free to return people to the clearing station yet, so people bedded down where they could, most passing into unconsciousness in a matter of minutes as the exhaustion finally struck.

Susan accepted the provisions and then went to find the doctor.

He was still in the surgery tent when she caught up, busy with the new staff as they discussed what to do with a young man who was passed out on the table.

'Sir,' Susan said, though she was swaying herself from tiredness. 'Sir, you've been here longer than I have. You're in no fit state to operate. You must rest.'

The others seemed startled. 'You were already here?' one said. 'I thought you came with the Soisson devision.'

He sighed. 'I arrived early,' he said. 'You're right, nurse. I'll stand down. Excuse me, gentlemen.'

He ushered her out of the tent politely, and then caught her hand and pulled her with him towards the car that he had driven there.

It was empty, one of the few places left. They climbed into the back and he pulled another blanket from under the bench and handed it to her.

'Here. You need to sleep, Susan. Please.'

'And if I do? How quickly will you run back there? As if you don't need the rest more than I do,' she retorted.

'Susan, with all you know of me, do you really believe that's true?' he asked quietly.

While she was trying to find an answer, he lit a small storm lantern and tucked it under the bench where it wouldn't be disturbed or give out too much light. Then he turned back to her seriously.

'Sleep. I mean it. I'll stay here and relax for as long as I need to - you're right that I should clear my head. Then I'll get back to work, but I will keep an eye on you. No one should disturb you here.'

'Alastair,' she said, and almost sobbed at the shape of the name on her tongue. 'Oh dear God, Alastair, I didn't know if you were even alive, I- I needed- I can't-'

Propriety abandoned, he put his arms around her and she clung to him, tears dripping from her chin and darkening his jacket.

'I am safe, Susan, and so are you. We cannot ask for more. You can rest easy now.'

The exhaustion was more persuasive than his voice, but she pulled him down with her, wrapping them both up in the nest of rough wool, curling herself against his chest. His body felt cool even through the layers, but he rubbed his gloved hands around her arms and that did help to warm her.

'I've missed you so much, Alastair,' she whispered, as her mind wavered on the edge of sleep.

'And I you, dear heart.'

She slid into dreams, nestled in his arms with his breath stroking her hair.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Near Troyon, France_

_Spring 1916_

The thunder of gunfire echoed, startling Susan from a doze. She shuddered and rolled over, reaching out for a familiar shape, but no one was there.

Sitting up, she threw off the blankets and opened the back door of the car. Sickly firelight glowed amid the fog, some way off, and there were more sounds of explosives far away on the hills.

She climbed down and hurried to the barn where the dressing station had entrenched itself.

'I'm back,' she said as she washed her hands. 'Where do you need me?'

Alastair glanced up from the desk where he was leaning over a stack of papers. 'Nurse Leyland is struggling at the far end, go and help her. Dressings need changing, and the young Frenchman who came in before you went to rest needs morphine, if you can find any.'

'I'll see what I can do.'

Nurse Leyland looked as exhausted as Susan felt. Stepping in beside her, Susan handed her a fresh bundle of bandages.

'Doctor Shaw asked me to join you,' she said. 'Who should I go to next?'

Leyland gestured halfheartedly to the boy cringing on the bed beside her. 'His side is...' she began, but her eyes finished the sentence for her. There was a distinct odour that told Susan more than enough. The next ambulance was due soon, but he would likely not be alive to see it.

She washed his brow and methodically began changing his dressings anyway.

'Doctor Shaw...' the nurse said as they worked side by side. 'Have you worked with him for long?'

'Yes, I've been his assistant for some time.'

'He seems so tireless. I don't think he's slept at all since he got here, has he? Janice told me he's been on duty every shift since you arrived.'

'He's an indomitable man,' Susan said calmly.

After a few hours she hurried to the mess tent to get a cup of tea and something to eat. On her way back she paused at the door to the surgery room as a man was carried out on a stretcher, covering her mouth for a moment against the smell. Then she glanced inside.

'Doctor?' she said.

Alastair was drying his hands on a clean cloth. He crossed to where she was standing, brushing his hair back from his brow.

'Are you alright?' he asked quietly.

'Yes, fine. Nurse Leyland said she had noticed you've been on duty for the past five days. One of the others mentioned it to her, I think the duty officer.'

He nodded. 'We've done what we can here. I'll tell the commandant I have to move on this afternoon.'

'Alright. Just tell me when we're leaving. If I have a moment I need to finish my letter to George.'

'Susan... You don't have to come with me, you know,' he said, touching her shoulder gently. 'I know this isn't easy.'

She gave him a flat look. 'Where else would I go, Alastair? Don't be absurd, please.'

He sighed, and they parted without another word.

Three hours later they were back in the car and driving north.

'Where are we going next?' Susan asked as they bumped along the road under the pressing weight of the bruise-black cloud-cover.

'I think we can go back to the Verdun camp, it's been a few weeks. I believe they've had an influx in the past few days, too. Another gas bombardment.'

Susan shuddered. 'God save us. Why must we keep discovering worse ways to die?' she said under her breath.

Even with the rumble of the engine, Alastair seemed to hear her and nodded. 'Human ingenuity knows no bounds, even when creating suffering.'

'Even, or especially?'

He sighed. 'I choose to believe the former. It eases my spirits.'

'Why are you here, Alastair?'

He gave her a puzzled glance, steering around another deep hole in the road. 'I don't follow.'

Searching for the right words, Susan stared out at the passing fields of mud and ash and barbed wire. 'Most of us are numb,' she said at last. 'Or already broken. But you still... have hope. I don't understand it.'

'I've seen these things before,' he said, shrugging. 'It _will_ be over one day, though it seems endless now. All we can do is see to the present moment. It helps to smile, even when there seems nothing left to bring us happiness.'

'I'm glad I'm with you,' Susan said quietly. 'You make it easier for me to do that.'

They shared a brief look that was not quite a smile, but had the same warmth around the eyes.

'You know, some of the girls at the CCS were calling you 'Saint Luke',' she added.

Alastair chuckled wanly. 'A generous title.'

'It did make me think,' Susan said. 'There is something about you. The reason we must always keep moving. Why is it, exactly, that you never need to rest?'

'I take my rest in ways others do not always recognise,' he said, shaking his head. 'I'm not as tireless as they say.'

'But you don't sleep, do you? Even when you stay beside me. You take so little for yourself, and you give so much. Is saint such an overblown idea?'

'I take far more than you know. I am _always_ keeping my needs in check, Susan. Sleeplessness seems like small penance, and at a time like this it is a mercy, at least if I can hide it from others.'

The crash of distant artillery made Susan jump, and they fell silent for a time. Alastair seemed to speed up a little more, the car thudding through potholes and over the pitted ground.

They soon reached Verdun. The facilities at the station there were some of the largest Susan had yet seen, the nearby battalions already months into an ongoing battle that saw no signs of stopping. The smell was like a wall as they got close, stopping Susan's breath, crushing her lungs with the overpowering stench of death.

Nobody seemed to care who they were went they arrived. Everyone here was transitory. None of the nurses or staff she remembered were still present, and Susan didn't pause to consider why. They got to work without hesitation.

Snatching a few minutes of sleep whenever she could was enough to carry her for a few days, she had discovered. Three was about her limit, but it was possible. When she did have to give in and pass out, she no longer had to plead with Alastair to join her; he would come to find her, checking her temperature, looking into her bloodshot eyes, and calmly lead her back to their safe haven in his car. He seemed to know now that she would not rest until he agreed to do so too.

At Verdun she pushed on for four days, brushing off his touch and attention when he checked on her. Hours seemed too vital to waste on sleep. More men were coming in every moment, the urgency demanding constant attention. Still, when he caught her as she swayed, her tea slipping out of her hands, she couldn't argue with him anymore.

'You will do more harm than good this way,' he murmured in her ear. 'Sleep. Please.'

'Come with me. I can't rest without you there,' she begged, feeling the aching shame of selfishness as she did so. He could go on and on without her, and she knew it, but even at the depths of her exhaustion she had found her thoughts would not be silent when he was still out there at work.

He nodded. 'I'll join you in a moment. Go and lie down.'

'Don't lie to me.'

He paused and looked her in the eye. 'I won't. I will be there. I just need to say a few words to the next shift.'

She went back to the car.

Her bag was under the seat. She took the opportunity of privacy to change her clothes, run a comb through her hair once - it was growing out again, ragged and messy from lack of care - and then lay herself in her makeshift bed, using her duffle bag as a pillow.

True to his word, Alastair followed her a little time later. He closed the metal door behind him and lay down carefully beside her, brushing a lock of hair back from her cheek as she turned towards him.

'Thank you,' she murmured, mumbling a little with sleep.

He shook his head a fraction, his eyes searching her face. 'I'm doing this to you, aren't I?' he whispered. 'It isn't safe for you any longer. You're driving yourself too hard.'

'There's nothing else to be done,' she said, struggling to stay awake enough to answer. 'No one is to blame, especially not you.'

'No, I think I _am_ to blame,' he sighed, cradling her hands in his gloved ones. 'You think it is necessary to push yourself like this because you see what I do, but I am not a standard to which you should be held, Susan. I am something other, not just to you but to everyone here. I don't say as much to compliment myself, I only state the facts. What I can do is not natural. For you it would be deadly.'

'Not natural?'

He shrugged. 'In a manner of speaking.'

She twined their fingers together, holding onto him tightly. 'You've never been natural, love. I've known that for years. You look more youthful than I do, now, and you've been so ever since I've known you.'

'Then you should know better than to try to match me in hours,' he admonished tenderly, brushing her knuckles feather-light against his cold lips. 'I am afraid for you, Susan.'

Dreamy and a little dazed, she stared at him with wide eyes in the gloom. He had never kissed her like that before.

'Don't be afraid,' she whispered. 'I'll be alright.'

'You must take better care of yourself,' he pleaded. 'I used to think that selflessness might be my path to atonement, but I have discovered otherwise with time. Giving all of yourself and not holding any back to protect your being is never a safe practise. Don't forget, if you destroy yourself, you can help nobody. If you are to care for others, you must first be well enough to do so.'

Susan ran her fingertips across his pale cheek, wonder or exhaustion making her feel dizzy.

'I know what you are now,' she said, marvelling.

His expression tensed. 'Oh?'

She smiled, warmth flooding her face. 'Yes. You are an angel, darling. I should have realised it years ago.'

The chuckle broke his stillness and he shook his head at her wryly. 'If I am of some biblical design, then I assure you, I am far to the other end of the spectrum,' he said softly. 'But... I am selfishly flattered that you think so well of me.'

'I think everything of you, you know. There's nothing in the world that can make me feel happy here anymore except for you.'

His smile seemed to shake, and he nestled his cheek against her palm softly, his eyes filling with some unfathomable grief.

'Dear heart... I can't begin to say how sorry I am that you are suffering all this.'

'I am certainly not _suffering_,' she retorted hastily. 'I didn't mean to sound so maudlin. I only...'

'Don't do that. Don't try to tell me everything is alright. I understand how terrible this is for you, I'm not a fool,' he said, his hand stroking her shoulder lightly through the blanket, seeming unaware of the caress. 'I've been in places like this before - maybe never quite as hideous as this, I admit, but as close as may be - but you must see this all anew. You are so young and so kind, and to see such pain, such horror...'

She laughed a little and shook her head at him. '_So_ young, Alastair? I'm thirty-seven now, you know. I'm not the child I once was. Nobody should be here, darling, not me, not you, and certainly not all those poor boys who are dying as we speak. Let's not talk of _my_ suffering any longer. It makes me feel ungrateful for all the wonderful years I have had, when children half my age are being shot and gassed and drowned all around us.'

He sighed and closed his eyes. 'Yes, you're right. I know I am blinded by you at times. It's hard to keep perspective when I worry every moment over your safety.'

'Don't be so ridiculous. You mustn't worry over me. There are far more important things to think about.'

'Not to me.'

For a moment Susan found that she had no more words in her head. Then she took a breath, shaky and confused.

'How did all this happen to us?' she whispered. 'I never thought for a second that I would fall in love with you, Alastair, but now I can't imagine not loving you like this.'

His eyes flashed open and he gazed at her speechlessly for several seconds.

'No...' he breathed at last. 'No, you mustn't think of that. You mustn't feel that way.'

'Why? I'm a grown woman, don't I have a right to make up my own mind?'

'No, I... I would never... By God's grace, Susan, I can't begin to tell you how much I care for you, I do, but- I am not in a position to love you as you deserve.'

'Oh, don't be so upset,' she sighed. 'Nothing is the way it should be anymore. I don't care what you are, angel or demon or saint or sinner. I've known you for more than twenty years, old friend, and you've only grown more beautiful to me with time. When we go home from this awful place, I think you should marry me and make us both happy.'

He gave a broken kind of laugh and pressed her thumb against his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. 'Oh Lord in heaven... If I could... I would treasure you, Susan. For eternity, if you asked it of me. But I can't do that to you. I could never be your husband, not the kind you deserve. I never stay in one place, I never go back somewhere twice - you would be just as alone as before. It would be too cruel to you.'

'You'd still write to me, wouldn't you?' she said lightly. 'It wouldn't be so bad. I could come to meet you sometimes, perhaps in New York or Dallas or Salt Lake, wherever you might go. I'd like to visit new places with you. I've had a husband in the navy - a husband who is driven to move on by an angel's hands is hardly so different.'

'If anything, I am driven by the hounds of a hell of my own making,' he muttered, resting his brow against hers. 'No, Susan, I couldn't do it. I couldn't cage you that way. You know yourself that I am... not an ordinary man. I would go on and on as I always have, and you would be alone, with nothing but empty promises to keep you company. Please don't ask it of me any longer.'

'Alright,' she whispered, and sighed. 'No wedding, then. I will not be your bride. But you can't stop me from loving you, dear.'

'You shouldn't, you know. I'm not the man you think I am.'

'Whatever you are, you are good.'

'That's precisely what I'm trying to tell you. I am the very opposite.'

'Nonsense,' Susan stated firmly. 'I've been by your side for months now, and I've known you for too many years before that. You can't try to tell me falsehoods forever. Just admit that you are a kind and gentle man, and we can come to an accord.'

He laughed softly and shook his head at her. 'You see only my fight for forgiveness. Your graciousness reflects upon _your_ generous nature, but it says nothing of mine.'

'You won't convince me,' she decided. 'So you needn't keep trying. Let's forget the question of moral goodness, since it's so contentious.'

'As you wish,' he smiled. 'Now, you've let me disturb you for too long. You need to sleep.'

'I shall,' she promised wryly. 'If you will kiss me goodnight.'

For a moment he hesitated, a knot between his brows, and then it released into a soft smile.

'If you would like it.'

She nodded.

With tender eyes, he brushed her hair back from her cheek, rubbed his thumb against her jaw, searched her face for any hint of uncertainty. He found none, only calm affection. Then he kissed her lips, light and easy as the breeze.

'I will love you for as long as I live, sweet heart,' he murmured, soft against her skin.

She closed her eyes and smiled, and for the first time in months her dreams were full of summer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_Verdun, France_

_Summer 1916_

Blood. There was too much of it, washing over her hands as she fought to staunch the wound. She was doing nothing, helping nothing, saving nothing. There would be nothing but death here soon, cold and drowning in mud like all the rest.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh God, please...'

The boy was gasping, no sound left to his cries. His fingers grasped convulsively at her blouse, leaving red streaks across her shoulder.

'Darling, don't cry,' she whispered, brushing the soft strands back from his sweat-stained brow. There were no strangers left to her now. Every child who lay in her arms was another son, every man who cried out in agony her brother. Her heart was turning peculiar in the horror of it all; there was a desolate place inside her chest now, full of ghosts.

His breathing hitched, the familiar sound of life reaching the end of its tether. She pressed her lips to the boy's forehead, eyes tight shut, cradling him to her as he shuddered. Then the last thread snapped, and he was silent.

Gone.

She let him down gently and then scrambled along the trench, pushing past and stepping over slumped bodies. The crackle of gunfire pounded over her head.

'Alastair, we have to go,' she called. He was crouched beside somebody, his blond hair almost white against the dark uniformity of sludge and blood.

'Just a moment,' he replied, pleading.

'Is he going to be alright?'

She met him and knelt by the young man. The sight answered her question for her. No, he was not going to be alright.

Alastair poured a dose from a heavy bottle and massaged the young man's throat, helping him to swallow. After a few moments the soldier's trembling began to still and his eyes closed.

'Now we can go,' Alastair murmured, putting his things back into his bag.

'Morphine?' Susan asked.

'Enough to let him go peacefully.'

They crawled onwards through the mud.

Sobbing reached them. Above their heads the guns had quieted for a moment, and a voice was moaning.

'Where is he?' Susan looked around wildly.

'Up there,' Alastair said, buttoning his jacket. 'Wait here.'

'No, Alastair, _no_, you mustn't-'

'Don't move.'

'_Please!_'

He caught her reaching hand and pressed it to his lips, the blood and the mud mingling across his cheek. 'Don't be afraid for me,' he said firmly. 'Just stay safe.'

He pulled a hat on over his pale hair and flung himself over the lip of the trench. There was a moment's peace, and then another hail of gunfire.

Susan slid down against the boards, hands over her mouth, her whole body shaking. _No, no, no, please not him, I beg of you,_ she prayed. _Anything but this. I can't live like this._

Seconds passed. A minute. Two. Her heartbeat pounded time, echoing through her mind.

Then there was a shape falling beside her, two bodies slumping against the wall.

'Oh God!'

Alastair was on his knees again instantly, carefully laying the soldier down and making him comfortable.

'Pass me my bag, please.'

'Alastair-'

'Please, love, I'm fine and well, and now I need my bag.'

She handed it to him, numb, her eyes taking in every piece of him as he hurried to staunch the young man's bleeding.

'You shoulder,' she said, her voice hushed and trembling. 'Your jacket has a hole. Your shoulder...'

'Don't touch it,' he said sharply. 'I'll tend to it in a moment.'

The soldier was still keening, reaching helplessly for his torn leg. Susan caught his fumbling hands and held them tightly, turning her attention to where it was needed.

'It will be alright, I promise,' she whispered, though they were meaningless words.

'Miss... Miss, it hurts so much,' he sobbed, child-like, clutching her fingers so tightly they ached.

'I know, but not for much longer,' she said, tears streaking through the grime on her cheeks. 'I'm sorry this is happening to you, I'm so... sorry.'

'This leg has to come off,' Alastair murmured. 'The bones are completely shattered below the knee.'

'Here? The blood loss...'

'No, we must go back to the car. There are no more survivors here, we will have to move him anyway.'

'I'll bring the stretcher.'

'No, you wait here with him. I'll fetch it. I'll only be a moment.'

He brushed past her and was gone down the trench.

Susan tightened her grip on the soldier's hand as he groaned. 'Just a few more minutes, darling,' she pleaded. 'We will have you away from here very soon and you'll be well again, I promise.'

He looked up at her helplessly, and a funny smile crossed his face. 'You danced with me,' he said, his voice shaking.

She hesitated, searching his features, and then recognised him. 'Oh! I remember.' She smiled too, more tears flooding her eyes. 'Wasn't it lovely? I enjoyed that very much. You were a wonderful dancer.'

'I don't want to die,' he begged, pulling at her pleadingly. 'I-' He broke off with a strangled sound of agony.

'Nor do I,' she whispered.

A moment later she heard Alastair returning, stretcher in his arms. He laid it down and they manoeuvred the lad onto the canvas.

'Hold on tight, my friend,' Alastair said gently. 'It won't be much longer.'

They shuffled along, heads low, trying not to stumble or jostle the patient. His sobbing was ceaseless all the same, and Susan found her own tears were uncontrollable. Shock and confusion seemed to overwhelm her, and she could barely see past the shimmering fog, but she kept on walking.

At the car they slid the stretcher on board, Alastair climbing in to guide it. Susan had to pause for a moment, leaning against the side of the vehicle and taking steadier breaths.

'Blast, my bag,' Alastair swore.

'I'll go back for it,' she said instantly, eager for a purpose.

'No, don't, it's not worth-'

'It's fine, I'll only be a moment.'

The soldier cried out again.

She hurried back towards the place where they had found him. The mud was flowing like a river now, more rain beginning to fall as she stumbled down the uneven walkways. The maze of trenches led in every direction, but she could see the streaks of recent blood to guide her.

The bag was in a pool, water drenching the canvas. She picked it up, pouring off the worst of it, and clutched it to her chest.

A few yards away there was a thump and a splash. Through the rain she saw the ripples on the water.

Half a mile away there was a thunderous explosion. The earth shook. Then there was another from much closer, ear-splittingly loud.

It took a split second for the fear to strike her as the ripples echoed outwards, and then she was running.

_Grenades_.

Another fraction of a second passed. Then another.

Then the world shifted under her feet, all sound vanishing in a great white burst of noise that shattered the eardrums. The wall of pressure seemed to fling her forwards, and there was a sense of pain but it was less intense than she had expected. Her back stung and tingled like a sunburn. The crash of landing against splintering boards was worse, but still barely seemed to matter. Her head ached.

She rolled down into the mud and lay still for a moment while clods of earth and pieces of wood and debris fell down around her like the rain. Echoes of the unbelievable boom seemed to be rolling around her head, and she marvelled that such a loud noise could leave her unharmed. She clenched her fist and sighed with relief; the bag was still in her hand. She hadn't lost it.

'Susan! _Susan!_'

_I'm here_, she wanted to say. Strange, that her lips wouldn't obey her.

She made to sit up, and a sudden weakness washed over her. She couldn't move.

Then he was beside her, sobbing her name and touching her face tenderly, kissing her cheeks and her brow and her eyelids and begging, begging her to hold on. His clothes were torn and burned, a black mark across his cheek.

_I don't understand_, she tried to tell him. _I'm alright, darling._

All that came out was: 'A'ight... so... love you...'

He was plucking at her coat like it was dirty, she noticed, though that seemed absurd; everything was covered in filth here, she had a feeling she would be washing her hair for a century to rid it of this place.

The sight of the blood surprised her. His hands when they came back into view were covered in it.

'Alas...tair...'

He kissed her reaching fingers tenderly, clutched at her hand, her name flowing from his lips like it was the only word left in the world.

_Then_ the pain was there. It had been hovering just out of sight, waiting for its moment, but now she was aware of it at last and it was ready to make up for lost time. She choked, feeling like her entire stomach was on fire.

'What's... to... me...' she gasped, fumbling to try and feel what had happened. He held her hands aside, catching her wrists and pinning them.

'Don't touch it, Susan, it's too- My bag, where's... No, no, it's no use...' He was rambling, lost, struggling with his things. 'Why, why is this happening? Why you? It's not right, damn it!'

'Alastair,' Susan managed, and he was with her again, his eyes on her face. 'Alastair... I'm... going to die... aren't I?'

With the rain pouring down his cheeks, he looked like he was crying. 'No, love, no, I won't let you die, I promise,' he murmured, brushing her hair back from her brow. 'I'll... I can...'

'It's alright,' she said, pulling his hand to her cheek. His cool touch made the pain a little easier. 'If I... have to die, at... least you're... with me.'

It was so hard to breathe. There was a strange feeling every time she tried, a kind of hollowness in her chest. With difficulty she looked down at herself, and then it made more sense; there was a shard of wood sticking out from between her upper ribs. A lung was punctured, then. That would be the trouble.

'This is my fault,' he was muttering, shaking with anger and pain. 'This is all my fault, you would never have come here if I- I should never have- Damn it, damn it _all_, how could I have let this happen to you? I was to protect you, I should have... No... No, it isn't right, it isn't... Please... Please don't go-'

'Stop it,' she gasped, another shuddering breath catching in her throat. 'Just... kiss me, please.'

He obeyed, pressing his lips to hers in desperation, feverish and anguished. She clutched at his shoulder with numb fingers, trying to hold him closer. His mouth was so cool and sweet, softening the pain a fraction, and she sobbed against him, clutching at her wounded stomach.

'I don't want to die,' she moaned, gasping as another stab of flame shot through her. 'Oh, God, please... I wanted years... With George, and you, and... Oh, oh God, it's not- It's not enough-'

She choked as he cradled her, and he was shaking his head doggedly, a stream of constant pleas falling from his mouth so soft she barely heard them.

_Oh_, the fire in her stomach was real now, she was sure of it, an unbearable charring heat where she had touched it. Her throat was burning, too, everything was burning.

She shuddered and a strange cry slipped out.

_It's getting worse. How could it be **worse**?_ she wanted to ask, but her voice was gone.

He was trying to staunch the bleeding with the ragged pieces of his shirt, but everything was drenched already from the rain and there was nothing left to soak up the blood. Looking down at his hands as he worked, Susan kept expecting to see flames licking their way out of the gash but there was only bubbling red, pouring and oozing and staining its way up his arms. Amazing. How could anyone hold so much of it inside them?

The burn in her throat was getting more and more painful, like pieces were being torn away and incinerated every moment. She tried to clutch at it with clumsy fingers, tried to suck in some fresh air to cool the blaze, but nothing helped.

'Do you- Do you want the morphine?' Alastair asked, his voice shaking worse than his hands. 'If- If you want me to, I will help you to go gently, I- I can make it easier, dear heart, I can take away the pain-'

'No,' Susan croaked, though it made her sob. 'No, I don't- I don't want to die, I... Oh God, the _fire_, why... am I burning? Alastair- Why is there fire?'

'There is no fire, love, I- I don't... understand...'

His hands ceased their busywork as he looked down at her, a new kind of terror in his eyes, but she couldn't see him any longer. She was sobbing roughly, her breaths jagged and bloody, and as he hesitated she thrashed once, tensed muscles pushing her away from the ground in a spasm of agony.

'Oh _God_, please, ma-make it s-stop,' she choked, shivering like a plucked wire. 'Burning- I- _please_-'

'Susan,' Alastair whispered, taking her face in his hands and pressing his brow to hers, 'Susan, I have made a terrible mistake, I- No, never mind that, listen to me, just listen. I need to know the truth.'

She bit down hard, jolting a little in his grasp but trying to focus on his words.

'You have a choice, love, that I cannot make for you. Do you want me to help you to die, so this will be over, so you may have peace- Or would you rather be damned for all eternity, but live?'

His voice broke and he pressed his lips to her brow, trembling.

In the scorched, dark place that was Susan's mind, the words turned over and over like dry fall leaves tumbling in the breeze. She barely knew what they meant, but they were somehow beautiful to her, in the way her thoughts were splintering into prisms of pain and light. He was trying to give her something, something important, and beyond the wildfire that was eating its way into her flesh she could almost see what it was.

'Live,' she croaked, blood running down her chin. 'Want... to... live.'

He picked her up in his arms without another word, as effortlessly as if she were weightless. Then he was running, through the shattered trenches, past the blasted wreck of the car, across the empty fields, and the world faded into a gentle haze of falling rain and darkness.

In the crumbling remnants of a barn he finally laid her down, beneath a cracked roof that barely kept the rainfall at bay. On a bed of old straw he settled her in as much comfort as he could, steady and methodical, and then as she cried for the fire again he knew he had no more time.

'If this is wrong, God forgive me,' he prayed to the night sky. 'I will pay any price.'

His teeth cut into her skin with no resistance, like sliding a razor into a ripe plum. The flesh parted and Susan felt the cold seep into her veins like frost; then, as the moments passed, and he bit again and again across her shoulders and her arms and her hands, the cold began to change, and she recognised it. This was where the fire had come from. This was what it felt like. A cold so deep that it burned, consumed, devoured everything and left you charred and shrivelled and empty as a husk. The cold fire of hell.

When the first scream left her, he held her hands in his and whispered of how sorry he was. She could no longer listen to his words, however - she had left him far behind, gone to some other place built of a kind of agony she had never imagined could exist. All other pains receded like a falling tide, insignificant in her memories as she drowned in it, burned in it, tore herself apart piece by tiny, unspeakable piece.

It was endless, unceasing, unforgiving in its violence. The pain would never stop, never be gone, never be forgotten. It was like a piece of her, defining her nature. The only thing to tell her who she was.

So it was that slowly, in the dark, while the rain fell, Susan died.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

And then, very slowly, the woman who had once been Susan awakened with the sunrise.

* * *

Thanks for reading.


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